


No Sooner Looked But They Loved

by Catchclaw



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Birthday Party, Birthday Presents, Everyone Is Alive, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Schmoop, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:16:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Contrary to popular opinion, Derek doesn't have a problem with birthdays. It's surprises that he can't stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Sooner Looked But They Loved

Contrary to popular opinion, Derek doesn't have a problem with birthdays.

It's surprises that he can't stand.

Surprises like catching Peter lounging in his kitchen at 7:30 in the morning.

It's really not the way Derek wants to start any day, staring at Peter's favorite sneer, but today, it seems especially cruel.

It's his birthday, damn it. The one day a year when he can almost buy into being happy. When he can think about his mom and his sisters and his dad and his little cousins and not just be sad. Instead, he can remember waking up to find his bedroom full of balloons. The time his mom stuffed his backpack with birthday cards. The treasure map Laura made for him one year, when he was 11 or 12. The way she'd shoved him out the back door and pointed towards the woods. 

"You want your present?" she'd said. "Fine. Go find it."

It took him two hours and a sustained encounter with poison ivy, but he lugged the big book home in triumph just before dark.

"It's _The Norton Shakespeare_ ," he announced, brandishing the thing like a shield. "Mom. Look. All of the Shakespeare. In one book. Look, Mom. See?"

He remembered his mother laughing, remembered seeing Laura's face turn around the corner with Cora's sleepy small one in tow.

"Took you long enough," Laura huffed, but, Derek remembers, she was smiling. 

He'd followed her into the living room and they made a pile on the couch, Cora snugged up between them. Laura tugged the book from his hands and spread it out over their laps. He remembers the way the columns of words slipped by, one after the other, as as she flipped through the pages and back. 

"Ok," she said after a minute, big sister efficient. "We'll start at the beginning. Here. With _As You Like It_."

So. He used to like surprises. Whether they were sweet or silly, ridiculous or embarrassing, they were always bound up and twisted in love.

But now, he thinks, dripping all over his kitchen floor, not so much.

Peter's mugging so hard that Derek almost misses the flowers.

Which is saying something, since they're three feet high and shaped like toucans. Well, a toucan's beak, anyway.

He stops dead in the doorway.

"Peter," he says. A question.

Peter keeps grinning. It's creepy and out of place. Like a vampire with a clown nose.

"Derek!" he crows, dripping smug off his tongue. "Happy birthday! I can't say I remembered, but hey. Looks like somebody did."

He sweeps his hands at the things where they're crowded on the kitchen table. Derek gets in a good stare.

There are two toucans beaks of a bright starchy green—buds, he guesses, not yet bloomed. Each bud is crowned in blue and orange petals that look spiky and sharp. They're pretty in an alien way, the plants, like a praying mantis is before it moves, before you remember that it's actually alive and walking around all spindly limbed and skinny.

Derek shivers. Hides it behind a bluster.

"Get out of my house," he says. "And take those things with you."

"What?" Peter says, feigning the vapors. "How can I? These, dear boy, are for you." 

There's something in his voice Derek doesn't like, never trusts, but at 7:30 in the morning, he's too tired to parse. And he'd really like to finish his shower. 

So he glares. Takes a step or two forward. Puts on the high beams.

He really wishes he was wearing some pants.

Peter doesn't even blink. No. He starts laughing.

"Oh," he snorts. "No. Get over yourself. I sure as hell didn't bring them. I've made a lifetime commitment to loathing, where you're concerned. These are from your would-be chew toy, Stiles." He waves a white card at Derek's face, in no kind of surrender. "See?"

Derek snatches the card with a growl. And scowls. 

Because there it is. In black and white.

"Happy birthday, Sourwolf!" the card says. "You have the next 12 months to glower, so I hope you take one day to let these make you smile."

His wet hands make the ink run, the words spilling away as he reads them.

It's not signed, but it might as well be. 

Peter's beaming at him when he looks up.

"It's adorable," Peter says with a sigh. "Always is. Puppy love."

Derek's arm snaps out. Points. "Out."

Peter throws up his hands, conceding, but he still smells like a used car salesman. Overconfident and far too pleased with himself.

"Hey," he says. "I just came by to see if you heard about that hiker that got filleted on Route 9 last night. Because you never know. Maybe one of your little Beta bots has a taste for granola."

Derek gets in his face. " _Leave_. And stop breaking into my house."

Peter does that silk water thing and twists away. Makes for the front door. Keeps yapping.

"Hey," he says, over his shoulder. "Good thing I was here, though. Right? To sign for your flowers. The ones from your sweet human baboo. I don't think they would have just left them out on the stoop, you know?" He gets a hand on the knob and turns, teeth gleaming in the sunlight. "Oh, Derek. The things that boy would do for you, if only you had the stones to ask. All you'd have to do is say the word, I'm telling you, and he'd be on his knees so fast that you'd both be—"

Derek boots him out the door. Double locks it with a bang. 

He can hear Peter cackling down the hallway as he stomps back into the shower.

Ugh. Derek hates surprises.

**

It's hard to plan a surprise party for a werewolf, admittedly, but Derek feels like his pack could have tried a bit harder.

Face facts: Erica doesn't give a shit about stealth and Issac's too honest for his own good.

Among them, only Boyd can keep his mouth shut. And he's really not the party-planning type.

He sighs and knocks back the last of his coffee. Has to dodge the flowers on the way to the sink. Snarls as one of the petals catches his arm, gives him a long scratch that stings and draws a little blood.

He mops at it, cursing, and sincerely hopes they didn't invite Peter.

He knocks around the loft most of the morning, cleaning up just enough so it won't be obvious and studiously ignoring the plants. The flowers. Whatever.

Despite his best efforts with the Windex, the smell of the things leaks out of the kitchen and drifts all over the loft. It's not as if they smell bad—it reminds him of burnt cinnamon, of sweet rolls left under the broiler too long—but it wasn't his choice, that smell. So he makes an effort to resent it, Stiles' uninvited invasion.

But part of his heart, the little seed of love he can never quite kill, is beaming.

At night, when he's in his own bed and almost very nearly asleep, there's no question of how much he wants Stiles. Wants to be with him. In him. Wants to watch the way his eyes cross when he reads and the way his fingers dance when he's thinking. Wants to pull Stiles to his chest and shove his ear against Derek's heart and let the tattoo of his blood do the talking. 

As much as he feels, surely Stiles will be able to hear it. Surely he won't make Derek say.

It's been two years, anyway, almost three, and the words still elude him.

He loses track of the morning, somehow. 

By lunchtime, his kitchen is filled with color. The toucan beaks have broken open, spilling red and purple petals out into the blue and the orange.

They're very loud now, the plants. Almost garish.

So very Stiles, he decides. The way they fill the room, crowd into all of his senses. 

The flowers, they're like car crashes, like falling stars, like the 49ers when they're winning: Derek can't keep his eyes away.

They draw him over while he's still chewing, still working his way through his third turkey sandwich. He rubs a petal with his fingers, careful. This time, it doesn't bite. He half expects his hand to come back covered in frosting, the way the cinnamon smell holds him fast. It doesn't, of course. That would be, even he can see, ridiculous. But he can't help but lick them, his fingers. Just in case.

No. No frosting. Just the taste of rye bread and mayonnaise.

Still. He buries his face in one of the blooms, breathes deep, and he could swear the thing is stroking his face. That he can feel petals over his ears, sketching the outline of his jaw. They're not sharp anymore. They're rose petal soft, cool and damp against his skin.

Ridiculous, he decides, as his tongue traces his lips. Absolutely absurd.

Like Stiles.

He washes the dishes and waters the plants and jerks off into a dishtowel.

Right, he thinks as he comes. Stiles. Absolutely absurd.

He's halfway through sweeping the living room when he gets distracted by the window. 

For a moment, he imagines he can see Stiles' handprints there, pressed way too deep in the glass. See the fog of his breath there, too, the way it curls and shorts as Derek fucks into him. The sound of Stiles' heartbeat, heart fist rabbity fast, echoes in his head, and the way he smells, god, it makes Derek's dick see fucking stars.

For the record: Windex is not the best weapon against spunk.

The other half of the living room stays unswept.

He passes out on the couch for a while and wakes up feeling almost guilty. Almost.

Hey. It's his birthday. If his brain wants to use Stiles as sex fodder, so be it.

It's the kid's fault, he decides in the shower. He's the one who sent the damn flowers. Virtually guaranteed that he'd be top of Derek's mind all day. So what if Derek took that his own way?

He loses a half hour under the spray daydreaming about Stiles' cheekbones. Imagines how they'd feel under his thumbs, how they'd catch the shadows in the middle of the night, how they'd look frosted with Derek's come.

He's still grinning when Issac shows up about five. Bearing cupcakes and playing his role of Official Distraction to the hilt.

It's sweet. Even if he is a terrible liar.

Derek waits until he has half a red velvet in his maw before he says: 

"So. When's everyone else coming over?"

Issac's eyes goes dinnerplate and he hacks crumbs all over the couch. 

"What?" he coughs. "Everyone else who?"

Derek laughs and goes for the paper towels.

In the kitchen, the flowers are—

The flowers are pink. Which is weird. He could have sworn they were—

And the smell. God. It's like walking into a Pillsbury wet dream. 

He can feel a dopey smile take over his face, feel himself slide over to the table and lean in. He tips into the petals, lets them tangle themselves in his hair, and sighs.

He hears Issac pad in. Hears him stop short.

"Uh," he says. "Um. Derek? You ok?"

"God," Derek breathes, burnt sugar in his lungs. "Smells so good in here, doesn't it? Jesus. It's fucking incredible."

"Do what?" he hears Issac say. "I don't smell anything."

Before Derek can bribe his mouth to move again, there are fists on the door. Happy stupid shouts.

"I'll, uh," Issac says. "You know what? How about I get that?"

He wanders out to his party, then, already in progress.

Erica flings a pink feather boa around his neck and slaps him on the ass.

He kisses her cheek and smacks her right back.

"Hey!" she laughs, tugging on the boa. "Happy wolf. What's with you?"

Scott gives him a weird look and a wide berth and makes straight for his boyfriend.

"Why is he so smiley?" Derek hears him ask Issac. "It's creepy."

"I dunno," Issac says, _sotto voce_. "But I saw him making out with a plant a minute ago, so."

"What?" Scott barks, but then Boyd's there, Boyd who shakes Derek's hand and gives him this deep, meaningful stare like only Boyd can do, and damn if he isn't the best beta Derek's ever had.

So of course, Derek hugs him.

He can hear the room draw a fast WTF, but Boyd just chuckles and squeezes him back.

"Mellow," he says in Derek's ear. "Nice. It's a good look for you."

Somebody flips on the speakers and the space rocks with sound, something screechy and self-absorbed that under normal circumstances would make Derek draw blood.

Except, in the doorway, there's Stiles.

He's carrying a shoebox wrapped in the Sunday funnies that he drops a half second before Derek grabs him.

He makes a beautiful noise when Derek gets him pinned to the wall. Another when Derek nips his lip. And one sweet more when they finally kiss. 

Somewhere in his brain, in some part that's not smothered in sugar, Derek realizes that this is kind of a big deal. That their first kiss is in front of an audience, who, from the smell of things and the sounds of general shrieking, are on the spectrum from ecstatic to seasick. Even Stiles seems kind of stunned. Especially when Derek starts licking his neck.

"Oh my _god_!" someone says. All of them do. Whatever. Derek doesn't care, because Stiles' mouth is flapping, his heart is stuttering in all the ways Derek's ever imagined, and it feels like he's doing his best not to moan.

God, Derek loves surprises.

He's vaguely aware of the pack streaming past them, of the door slamming, of Scott's semi-hysterical howls in retreat.

But what he knows are Stiles' hands on his hips. The way his tongue tastes around Derek's own. The way he rides Derek's thigh unashamed, the blush shooting up his throat and over his cheeks and deep into Derek's palms, even as he gasps:

"Jesus fuck, Derek. What the hell?"

Derek drops, by way of answer. Goes to his knees and buries his face between Stiles' legs. He feels Stiles' fingers tangle in his hair, the tips cool damp like roses. Revels in the sound that shoots out of Stiles' gut as Derek works the zipper and gets a hand inside.

Somewhere in his brain, in some part that's not smothered in Stiles, Derek realizes that he's sucking Stiles off while wearing a feather boa. A boa that Stiles is using like a pink set of reins, tugging and catching and holding Derek's mouth where he wants it while he bucks in and makes these gorgeous sounds, sounds that fall out of his throat and push out through his chest and twine their way through the space. Wrap themselves around the smell of the flowers. 

Derek's cock is pissed, trapped and hissing in his jeans, but it's worth it to watch Stiles' face as he comes. To hear the way he goes silent a split second before he breaks, like the whole world is hanging in the balance, like his body can't hold another drop of pleasure and that's why he has to come, has to spill what Derek's giving him, if only to make room for more.

It's absolutely absurd. It's the best gift Derek's ever been given.

He lets Stiles lap his own taste off Derek's lips as they kiss. Lets him lean into Derek's chest and just breathe for a moment.

"Um," Stiles says, hoarse. "Hello. So. Happy birthday."

"Mmm," Derek pants into his hair. "Thanks for the flowers."

"What?" he hears Stiles say, vaguely, but he's too busy dragging him to the bed to listen.

**  
Stiles naked makes Derek crazy.

The way he stretches and shifts as Derek touches him. The way he eyes Derek's cock, almost shy. The way he shouts when Derek gets two fingers in, then moans and rolls his hips to meet Derek's hand.

Somewhere in his brain, in some part that's not smothered in lust, in need, in raw fucking _want_ , Derek realizes that he has no idea what he's doing. In theory, yes, fine, but in practice? 

He's about to fuck Stiles, the boy that he's loved for forever from afar. Stiles, the boy he just kissed for the first time a half hour ago, and now they're going to fuck? 

That should probably freak him out.

It doesn't. 

Yes, he thinks vaguely, twisting his wrist just to watch Stiles squirm. There's something weird going on.

Then Stiles starts making these noises, little punched-out pieces of sound, and Derek can't get inside him fast enough.

He flips Stiles over and dumps lube everywhere, too much, but some of it lands on his cock, on the condom, and that's what matters. That's enough.

He lets it go, lets it all fly away and just loses himself in the rhythm, in the way Stiles' heartbeat shoots into fifth gear as Derek works his way in. The way his name gets shredded between Stiles' teeth when he keens. The way Stiles' cock feels in his fist, blood pump counterpoint blood to the way Stiles' body is holding him fast, even as things get blurry, even as he gets Stiles' shoulder in his free hand and shoves his face into the mattress.

When Derek comes, the world goes pink and red and blue and orange and he growls, soft and possessive, deep into Stiles' ear.

After a minute, he sits up, still buried inside, and tugs Stiles' back to his chest.

"S' ok," he burrs. "Touch yourself, baby. Wanna see you come."

He holds the kid's hips and tips his chin on Stiles' shoulder, heavy breath content as he watches Stiles' fingers stutter over his pretty fat cock.

Stiles gets in a dozen strokes before it's over, before his belly is smeared with come and his heartbeat relearns how to rest.

He doesn't speak until they're stretched out in the sheets and Derek's rubbing a warm washcloth over his chest.

"Holy shit," Stiles sighs without opening his eyes. "Dude. Seriously. That was amazing."

"Mmm," Derek says, flinging the washcloth at the floor. 

One eye drifts open, and Derek can see himself reflected there, hair hot wild and crazy. 

Stiles touches his face, gentle. Traces Derek's smile with his thumb. "It's probably the sex talking," he slurs, "because orgasms do not equal logic, but god. I love you. I don't totally understand why, most of the time. Seeing as you're kind of an asshole. But I do."

Derek tips down until they're nose to nose. "Yeah," he says, slipping the words between Stiles' lips. "Believe or not, I love you. Even if that makes me question my sanity, most days."

Stiles snorts and presses their mouths together.

"And like I said," Derek says after a minute. "Thanks for the flowers."

This time, he's with it enough to smell Stiles' confusion. 

That, and to notice that the cinnamon roll smell is gone.

Huh.

"I didn't send you flowers," Stiles mumbles, shaking his head in slow motion. "Don't get why you keep saying that."

He pitches over and buries his face in Derek's chest. He's asleep in two heartbeats. Derek's not too far behind.

**

When they wake up, it's after 11 and Stiles has to rush to make it home before curfew.

It takes them 20 minutes of kissing and a handjob on the couch to say goodnight, though, so it's a close thing.

Derek stumbles into the kitchen, after, still stupid with smiling, and stops. 

The flowers, they've fallen to ash. All that color dulled and dead. His table, the floor, they've covered in what looks like the remains of a volcano. Just two flower pots full of gray.

And Derek's nose draws a blank. What's left of the plants, they don't smell like anything now. 

It's strange, he realizes. Sure. The mighty morphin power flowers. But he's tired and his body is still smeared with Stiles and he's too happy to think too damn hard.

And fuck it. It's still his birthday.

He's almost finished sweeping up the mess when his phone rings.

"So!" Peter says. "Tell me. Did you enjoy your gift?" He laughs, the one that makes him sound like Snidley Whiplash. "Did you have fun unwrapping young Stiles?"

Derek drops the broom. Bangs his head into the nearest wall for good measure as the pieces snap into place.

He's an idiot.

"I hate you," he sighs. "Have I mentioned that lately? You're a dick."

"Come _on_. I am the best uncle ever. Besides, it was either sex pollen or a tie. And you don't own a shirt with a collar." Derek hears him crank up the smug. "Honestly, it was a gift to myself more than you. Now I don't have to watch you and your real boy make the eyes of sweet unrequited love at each other anymore. It was stomach churning, frankly. Bad for my health. I figured all you two needed was a good fuck to—"

"Ugh," Derek says, his forehead in plaster. "Shut up. Stop talking."

Peter laughs again, but this time, it's different. This time, there's an echo of the guy Derek remembers from when he was a kid. The one that taught him dirty jokes and how to climb trees and six ways to prank Laura without getting caught.

"Yeah," Peter says. "Ok. Still. Hope you had a good day, kiddo. Even you deserve one every now and then."

Derek stands there for a moment, listening to dead air and trying not to laugh.

Because it's absurd, the idea of Peter doing something that even borders on kind, no matter how self-serving it is. 

Still. Maybe Peter remembers what it used to be like before, too.

The phone chirps again.

"Hey," Stiles says. 

Derek feels his whole body smile. "Hi."

He hears Stiles chuckling. "So. I just remembered. With all that, uh, happened, I forgot. You didn't open my present, dude."

"Oh," Derek says, looking past the innuendo. "Right."

Stiles huffs, impatient. "So go get it already! I wanna know if you like it. My ego is fragile, ok?"

The box is in the corner by the front door, jammed under the coatrack.

He can hear Stiles vibrating on the other side of the line. "Come on. Hurry up! You'd think somebody with claws could open things faster. Geez."

Derek leans against the wall and pops the lid.

There's a paperback inside, hefty and slick with being new.

" _As You Like It_ ," Derek says, quiet.

"It's the Norton critical edition thingy," Stiles says fast. "Is that ok? I remembered you saying how much you liked Shakespeare stuff, last year when we had to read _Othello_ for English, remember? When you helped me and Scott with our papers? You said something then about different editions of each play or something? Which confused me. And I thought you said you liked the Norton ones, but I couldn't remember, exactly, and then I didn't know which of the plays you liked, so I just went for the first one on the shelf. If it's not your thing, dude, it's fine, I can—"

The smile makes it hard for Derek to talk. That's what it is. Not the clench in his throat. "It's great. Perfect. Thank you."

Stiles lets out a breath. "Oh. Ok. Cool. I mean, you're welcome. I mean, thank you. I mean—" his voice hitches—"I love you and I kind of love saying that and I'm gonna go before I get way too sappy, ok?" 

"Love you, too," Derek says for the first time in forever. "Stiles."

There's a happy squawk on the other end. And a sigh.

"And by the way," Stiles says. "Happy birthday."

Derek falls asleep in sheets that smell like love, with Laura's voice tripping iambic in his ear, an echo of long, long ago:

_no sooner_  
 _met but they looked, no sooner looked but they_  
 _loved, no sooner loved but they sighed, no sooner_  
 _sighed but they asked one another the reason, no_  
 _sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy_  
 _[…] they are in_  
 _the very wrath of love and they will together; clubs_  
 _cannot part them._

"That's enough for tonight, kiddo," she'd said, then, her hand over his hair. 

"But!" he'd said, trying his best not to yawn. "Laura! No fair. It's not over! I wanna know what happens."

She'd smiled at him over Cora's head. "Tomorrow," she'd said. "You'll find out tomorrow, Derek. I promise."

**Author's Note:**

> Excerpt from Shakespeare's _As You Like It_ , Act V, scene ii.


End file.
